


Finn's Flowers

by beetle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: AU, Actor Poe Dameron, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Dog BB-8, First Kiss, Florist Finn, Flowers, M/M, Oblivious Poe Dameron, Shiba Inu - Freeform, Star Wars AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Stormpilot Florist au: Where Finn is the loveable Florist Poe runs into when walking his dog one day. Also Poe rides a motorcycle. Also bb8 is a dog.( http://fuckyeah-stormpilot.tumblr.com/post/138445020646/hystrangea-stormpilot-florist-au-where-finn-is).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finn's Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: None. For more info on flower meanings, check out: http://www.theflowerexpert.com/content/aboutflowers/flowermeanings/

**Morning**

 

“No—no, I can come in for another audition . . . no, yeah, that’s kinda cuttin’ it close, but hey: it’s none of our business. We just show up and act our asses off. Yeah. Yeah.” Poe Dameron laughed as he was tugged down the street by his Shiba Inu pup, BB-8. He usually let her lead him whither she willed, since she seemed to know to cross on the green and not in between, unlike so many pedestrians. Though because of New York City’s enforced leash laws, he always had a leash on her when they were out. Admittedly, the leash was usually not in the hand with the plastic bag wrapped around it for pooper-scooping. But then, usually, he wasn’t getting a last minute audition call from his agent, Leia Organa-Solo.

 

“So, what time do they wanna have me come in?” Poe asked, trying to tuck the phone between his neck and his ear so as to have his non-bagged hand free for the leash. Leia’s smoky voice sounded in his ear, somehow audible over the sounds of the New York City streets.

 

“They want to see you _today_ , Poe,” she said, sounding annoyed—she, too, hated last minute callbacks, even though they were as integral a part of the business as headshots and online portfolios—but hopeful. “They said as early as possible.” Leia paused. “This may be the day they offer you the part.”

 

Poe snorted. “Not that I’m knocking my own acting ability, but since when do Latinos make it into space? Since never,” he replied to his own rhetorical question. “And anyway, even if they were inclined to cast me, it’s a bigger part than I’ve ever taken: more lines, more screen time, more focus on _me_. Not leading man-focus, but pretty close.”

 

“Oh, you’re being too pessimistic! You’re a fine actor and you _can_ get this part. It was made for you—it’s not even acting, really. This character— _Oscar_ —has _Poe Dameron_ written all over him.” Leia chuckled. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took them this long to schedule a callback.”

 

Poe rolled his eyes and managed to just miss stepping in a pile of dog shit. Not everyone was as conscientious about picking up after their dogs as he was.

 

Speaking of dogs . . . his puppy had stopped her tugging on the leash—had stopped walking completely, and was watching a young man arrange pre-made bouquets of flowers on a pair of wrought iron tables in front of a small flower shop. BB-8 was sitting on her haunches like a puppy-statue, watching him as if he was television, as he tinkered with the bouquets.

 

“So,” Leia said when the silence between them had drawn out. “Can I tell them to expect you in their offices by . . . nine?”

 

“Uh . . . what time is it now?” Poe asked as he caught up to BB-8, who was still watching the guy micro-manage the flower display. Not that Poe could blame her. The young man was bending over to pick up a final bouquet from a box on the ground in front of him—some kind of pretty yellow flowers in a small, crystal vase, that Poe couldn’t name even if there was a gun to his head—which gave Poe an _excellent_ view of the guy’s excellent _ass_ for a few seconds. And it _was_ _excellent_ , even in horrible, baggy olive-green cargo pants.

 

 _Wow_ , Poe thought, smiling a little. As the young man stood up to place this final collection of flowers among its brethren, Poe also ogled the muscles in the his shoulders and arms and back, all moving in eye-pleasing harmony under a nicely filled-out black t-shirt.

 

“ . . . 8:53, on the nose, kid,” Leia was saying. Poe blinked.

 

“You wanna tell them I can be there in _seven minutes_?” he asked, louder than he meant to, and the guy arranging the flowers started and turned to face Poe. Poe smiled and waved as the guy’s dark eyes ticked from him to the puppy. Him, to the puppy. They finally came to rest on Poe, giving him a quick once over that Poe definitely didn’t miss. “Have you ever heard of a thing called cross-town traffic? And it’ll take me at least ten minutes just to get back home!”

 

“Where are you now?”

 

“Near Mott Street.” Poe smiled his most charming smile at the florist, who smiled back: a smile as meaningless and professional as any flight attendant’s. “I’m walking BB-8.”

 

Leia sighed. “Alright, alright . . . can I tell them ten?”

 

Poe groaned inwardly. “Yeah, I think I can be there by ten,” he said, watching as the young man left off measuring Poe with his gaze, to kneel and pet BB-8 who, attention whore that she was, yipped and barked playfully. She rolled onto her back so the florist could pet her tummy, which he did, laughing, as BB-8 licked his forearm.

 

“Good.” On the phone, Leia sounded at least somewhat approving. “You’ll call me when you get there and when the audition’s done, right?”

 

“Of course.” BB-8 was barking ecstatically, her legs up in the air, moving as if she was running, as the florist scratched and tickled her. Poe’s charming smile became more like his real smile as this complete stranger—BB-8 rarely trusted anyone aside from Poe and Leia (and, in a limited fashion, Leia’s husband Han)—charmed and played with his normally stand-offish dog. “As per usual, General.”

 

“You know I hate that nickname, Poe.” He could practically hear Leia roll her eyes and he grinned.

 

“But it suits you. You know it does.”

 

“I know no such thing.” Leia sounded huffy, but still moderately pleased. “Anyway, knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”

 

“I will. There’ll be a Latino in space, yet, if I have anything to say about it.” At this, the young florist glanced up at Poe warily, his face still alight and happy from playing with BB-8. He was every bit as handsome as advertised, with perfect white teeth, skin the color of dark chocolate, and a square, manly jaw. “I’ll make ‘em _love_ me.”

 

“That’s the spirit!” Leia laughed. “Talk to you later.”

 

“You, too.” Poe said, winking at the florist, who—if Poe wasn’t mistaken—blushed and looked back down at BB-8, still alternately scratching and tickling her tummy. “’Bye.”

 

Poe slipped his phone into the right pocket of his blue jeans and shoved his hands in his brown leather jacket. “She really likes you,” he told the florist quite unnecessarily. The florist smiled again, this time at BB-8.

 

“Yeah. Animals usually do.” The florist’s voice was low and pleasant, and sent a brief shiver up Poe’s spine.

 

“This little girl’s usually _very_ picky about who she lets rub her stomach,” Poe said in an exaggerated whisper. “I had her for six weeks before she let me anywhere near her tummy. Isn’t that right, BB-8?”

 

But BB-8 just laid back, tongue lolling as the florist worked his magic.

 

“So, her name’s BB-8?” he asked, and BB-8 barked in response to her name, a happy, puppy bark. “That’s an . . . interesting name.”

 

“ _I_ think so,” Poe agreed, not going into the miles-long story of where the name came from. Instead, he held out his hand for shaking. “Speaking of names, I’m Poe. Poe Dameron.”

 

The florist gave BB-8 one last scritch and scratch before standing up and reluctantly taking Poe’s hand. His grip was strong and dry. “I’m Finn . . . Flowers,” he said, gesturing at the shop window behind him. Poe glanced at it again, and noted the name of the shop on the picture window, in baroque yellow and purple lettering was, indeed, _Finn's Flowers_.

 

Poe grinned. “Wow, that’s . . . a remarkable coincidence: a guy named _Flowers_ going into the floral arrangement business.”

 

Finn shrugged. “It actually is a coincidence,” he said without inflection or elaboration. Then he seemed to remember he was still shaking Poe’s hand. He cleared his throat and let go.

 

BB-8, sensing that there were no more scritches and scratches forthcoming, got to her feet and stood on her hind-legs, placing her front paws on Finn’s legs. She gazed up at him as if at a favorite toy.

 

“Ah—down, BB-8! That’s a bad girl! Very bad girl,” Poe exclaimed, giving the leash a gentle, discreet tug. BB-8 whined up at them both, then dropped her front paws to the ground again.

 

“I’m sorry, uh, Finn. She just gets excited, sometimes.” Poe scratched his own head with his free hand. “She doesn’t usually jump up on people like that.”

 

“It’s cool.” Finn smiled wryly. “Like I said: animals like me.”

 

“And plants, too, apparently.”

 

“I _do_ have something of a green thumb,” Finn admitted humbly. Then shrugged again, smiling. This smile was shy and self-deprecating. “Anyway, I should get back to work. It was, um, nice meeting you, Poe. You, too, BB-8,” he added. BB-8 barked that happy-puppy bark, looking from Finn to Poe, back and forth, as if she was at Wimbledon. At least until Finn turned and let himself back into his shop, with one curious, considering glance back at Poe, who waved.

 

“Nice meeting you, too, Finn Flowers,” he murmured, smiling to himself as he tugged BB-8—who was staring after Finn and whining—back toward home.

 

**Evening**

 

“What can I do ya for?” Finn Flowers asked as Poe stepped into his shop—said entrance announced by the bell over the door. Poe smiled and let the door close gently behind him. The whole shop smelled of flowers, of course. More scents and sights than Poe could begin to name.

 

And in the midst of this, the young florist, Finn, was writing something down in what looked like an ordinary Marble notebook, leaning on the counter next to the computerized cash register.

 

“Well, I’d like to get a very special bouquet for a very special person,” Poe said, and Finn looked up instantly, blinking and surprised.

 

“Oh,” he said, and: “It’s you.”

 

“Yep. Poe Dameron, at your service.” He executed a half-bow and smiled, moving deeper into the shop and closer to Finn. The florist smiled his wry, shy smile and straightened, placing his pen in the notebook and closing it.

 

“I remember. Where’s BB-8?”

 

Poe grinned. “She’s at home, probably asleep. It’s been a long day for her. For the both of us, really.” He stopped at the counter across from Finn and leaned on it, himself, looking down at the vases displayed therein. “She’d be sorry to have missed visiting with her new best friend, though.”

 

Finn chuckled, low and quiet. “Well, she’s welcome any time—um, as are you.”

 

Poe looked up into Finn’s eyes and held his gaze till the younger man looked away, flushing somewhere under that perfect chocolate complexion. “Thank you, Finn.”

 

Biting his lip, Finn shrugged. “I’m just glad to have someone in the shop. Even if they’re walking on all-fours.”

 

Poe frowned. “Business not going well?”

 

Another shrug. “Not as well as I’d like, but better than I’d feared. My partner thinks we’re doing pretty well for a new shop. She’s the business side of this venture.”

 

Poe’s eyebrows shot up as the bottom prepared to drop right out from his stomach. “Ah. You have a . . . partner?”

 

Finn smiled fondly. “I do. Her name’s Rey. You actually just missed her—she had to run an errand, but she’ll be back soon.”

 

“Ah,” Poe said, uncertain how to frame his next question— _just_ business partners? Or business _and_ romantic partners?—without looking like a busybody. Though he supposed he could just rely on his gaydar, which was pretty unerring. It’d been pinging since the moment he saw Finn—and Poe trusted it. Whatever else this _Rey_ was, she wasn’t Finn’s girlfriend.

 

“So,” Finn ventured when the silence between them had stretched out for a minute. “You said something about a special bouquet for a special person?”

 

“Oh, uh . . . yeah.” Poe was the one to blush, now. “I kinda need some guidance on this because I’ve never gotten anyone flowers before, so . . . I don’t wanna send an arrangement that looks like it belongs at someone’s wake, you know?”

 

Finn smiled. “I know exactly what you mean, Poe. You want something very specific to the person and the occasion?”

 

“Yes,” Poe exhaled in relief, laughing a little. “That’s it, exactly.”

 

“Well, I’d be glad to help.” Finn made his way around the counter and approached Poe. “Can you tell me a little something about this person? Her, ah, relationship to you, and maybe what colors she prefers?”

 

“Actually, she’s a he.” Poe said, softly. “And I don’t really know what colors he likes best. I don’t know him very well. _Yet_.”

 

“Hmm.” Finn’s brow furrowed as he glanced around the shop. Then he started off down one of the shop’s tiny, narrow aisles, gesturing for Poe to follow. “To start, Queen Anne's Lace,” he said, stopping in front of a bunch of pretty, small white flowers. “They signify complexity and delicateness. They’re kind of a filler-flower when it comes to bouquets—a sort of background to the main flower. Those and Baby’s Breath are, like, the parsley of the flower world. Just for show, really.”

 

“Well, I mean, they’re nice, but I don’t wanna give him filler-flowers. I want every flower to mean something special.” Poe said, his face turning red. But he met Finn’s eyes. “He’s—deserves to have every petal of every flower mean something.”

 

“Wow . . . he’s a lucky guy. Okay,” Finn said thoughtfully. “Then how many flowers do you want in this bouquet? Do you want a lot of the same flower—I have to say I’m sensing that you don’t. What do you want each flower to say?”

 

“Well,” Poe sighed, feeling out of his depth and out of his element. “I guess a dozen is a good number to start with. . . ?”

 

Finn’s brow furrowed. “That might be a little overwhelming for someone whom you don’t know very well. Maybe . . . half that?”

 

“You’re the expert. If you think that’ll do. . . .”

 

Finn smiled. “I think if you send the right flower, even _one_ could be enough.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yep.” Finn gave Poe a considering look. “What do you want to convey to this person? Bottom line?”

 

“I, uh . . . wanna say that he’s gorgeous and interesting and that I’d like to take him out, sometime. Get to know him better.” Poe glanced at Finn to see the other man was looking around the shop again. Then making a bee-line to vases of roses. Poe followed, amused and bemused.

 

“Okay, I’m thinking a mixed bouquet of roses might be what you’re looking for,” Finn said excitedly, like a man who’s just solved a world-class problem. “By mixing rose blooms of different colors purposefully, you can create a bouquet of emotions. For example, a bouquet of red and white roses would mean: _I love you intensely and my intentions are honorable_. Whereas a random _mix_ of roses would convey mixed _feelings_ or even send a message! Like: "I don't know what my feelings for you are, _yet,_ but I sure do like you enough to get you roses."

 

Poe blinked. “Hey—yeah. That’s it exactly! Because I really don’t know what my feelings are for this guy, just that I like him enough to give him roses.” Smiling, Poe looked at the roses on display. “And I think I _would_ like to send a full dozen.”

 

Finn’s brows climbed halfway to his close-cropped hair, but then he smiled. “The customer’s always right. Okay, so, your feelings for this guy are romantic, yes?”

 

“Um. Yeah.”

 

“Then first: lavender roses. A lavender rose, like its color, conveys enchantment. It can also kinda express _love at first sight_. But mostly these roses are used to express fascination and adoration.”

 

“Yeah, I dunno about that love at first sight-part, but from the moment I saw him, I was definitely fascinated and enchanted. My heart started beating faster, and hasn’t slowed down since.” Poe laughed nervously, not daring to meet Finn’s eyes. “So, yeah. He makes my heart beat faster, if there’s a rose for that.”

 

“Actually, there is,” Finn said, shoving four lavender roses at Poe, who took them carefully, with an eye for thorns. Then Finn reached for another color of rose—orange, this time. Poe’d had no idea roses came in orange, but Finn apparently had—and plucked four blossoms after carefully checking them for . . . whatever made orange roses less than perfect. Then he presented them to Poe, who took them hesitantly. “Voila!”

 

“They’re, uh . . . pretty.”

 

“And more importantly, they signify passion and energy!” Finn grinned, his face lively and alight with passion and energy, itself. “Orange roses can be used to express intense desire, pride, and fervor. They also convey a sense of fascination. These flowers are only rivaled by red roses as messengers of passion in romance.”

 

“Really?” Poe eyed the orange roses with a soupcon of doubt. Finn chuckled wistfully.

 

“Trust me on this, Poe: If a guy gave me a bunch of orange roses, I’d probably swoon into his arms.”

 

Chuckling, too, Poe cast that doubtful look on Finn. At the broad shoulders and defined musculature. “Uh, somehow, you don’t strike me as the swooning type.”

 

“Well, that depends very much upon the kind of flower,” Finn said primly, then snorted. “And the kind of guy giving them.”

 

Poe smiled at Finn and Finn smiled back, bright and happy. And they stood there, smiling at each other for almost a minute, until Poe cleared his throat and looked at the flowers he was holding. “So, uh . . . we’ve got eight roses. What about the last four?”

 

“Oh, right,” Finn looked away from Poe, back to the roses, his face a bit melancholy, now. “Well, a red rose is an _unmistakable_ expression of love, in its many forms, such as longing, wanting, or desire.” Finn glanced at Poe, then away so quickly, Poe was scarce sure it’d happened. “The number of red roses has special romantic meanings associated with them. Twelve red roses make the most popular bouquet of all. It conveys: _Be mine_ and _I love you_.”

 

“And what do four of them say?” Poe asked. Finn smiled to himself.

 

“Not quite _love_ . . . but definitely a slow, intense _like_.”

 

Poe laughed. “That sounds about right.”

 

“Good! Then I’ll get these ready and ring you up at the counter. C’mon.” Finn led the way back to the counter. Poe took that opportunity to ogle his ass again—as much as he could with Finn in cargo pants and not bending over.

 

Once at the counter, Finn cut the stems of the roses and arranged them just so before wrapping them in yellow and purple (or maybe it was lavender . . . Poe couldn’t honestly tell where the defining line was) paper, then _re_ -arranging them a bit. Poe watched the young florist’s hands as they nimbly moved among the flowers. They weren’t necessarily what Poe thought of when he thought of an artist’s hands—Finn’s were big, square, with long, blunt-tipped fingers—but they did the work of an artist, nevertheless.

 

Sooner, rather than later, Poe was holding his bouquet and Finn was ringing him up at the cash register. Poe paid with his AmEx and Finn gave him that professional smile again.

 

“Your guy’s a lucky man . . . he’s gonna _love_ that bouquet,” he said, handing Poe his receipt. Poe smiled nervously as he pocketed it and eyed the flower arrangement. It was simple, but . . . lovely. And it smelled _amazing_.

 

“I hope so. I mean, it’s really pretty and it smells nice,” Poe said softly. “I don’t know shit about flowers, but this is perfect. You do great work.”

 

The professionalism slipped out of Finn’s smile, leaving behind only genuine pleasure. “Thank you, Poe. I try.”

 

Poe returned that smile— _fuck, he really_ does _make my heart beat faster_ —then, after the time for polite good-byes had come and gone, and Finn’s eyebrows were rising in question, he returned the flowers.

 

“Um—” Finn took the bouquet back, his face really a study in questions, now. Poe’s smile turned anxious and he leaned on the counter. “Did you, uh, change your mind?”

 

“Not at all, Finn. I just wanted to give the guy I like his flowers as soon as possible,” Poe said, holding Finn’s gaze when the other man met his eyes. Finally, Finn’s eyes widened and he looked at the flowers. Then back at Poe. Then back at the flowers. Then back at Poe, once more.

 

Then he was smiling radiantly, almost smugly. “You know, I would’ve been _really_ disappointed if you’d actually walked out of here with these flowers.”

 

“You—wait, what?” Poe gaped.

 

Finn held out his free hand for Poe’s. It was dry and cool around Poe’s own warm, slightly sweaty one. “I mean, I totally _hated_ the guy you were gonna give them to if, you know, he wasn’t _me_. But he _was_ me!” There was definite relief in Finn’s radiant smile, now. “I _knew_ it!”

 

Shaking his head, Poe smiled a little. “So, I was that transparent, huh?”

 

Finn laughed. “Sorry, Poe, but your stealth mode isn’t that stealthy. Plus, I’ve got really good gaydar.”

 

Poe cleared his throat and looked down, hoping his own flush didn’t show up too much under his tan complexion. He couldn't, however, hide the grin stretched from ear to ear. “Wow. So. Um. I, uh, _really_ like you.”

 

“And I really like _you_ ,” Finn said, blushing hard enough that the faintest red showed up on his cheeks. He sniffed his flowers, then he whooped. “ _I’m_ the guy!”

 

Poe rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress the grin still claiming his face. He and Finn stood there, on either side of the counter, holding hands and grinning at each other, even as the bell above the door dinged and someone came in swearing and grumbling . . . in an English accent, no less.

 

“That’ll be my partner, Rey,” Finn said wryly, without even glancing at the door. Poe took a breath.

 

“Partner in the business-sense only, right?”

 

Finn was the one to roll his eyes this time. “Yes, only in the business-sense. And the best friend-sense,” he added as Poe sighed his relief. Then Rey was noisily leaning on the opposite end of the counter, scowling.

 

“We’ve _got_ to switch banks, Finn, because I swear I’m gonna get mugged and murdered one of these nights when I go to drop off a—oh. Hello,” the _business partner-only_ said, and at last Poe turned his gaze from Finn to her. He suddenly found himself the subject of her laser gaze. Rey looked him up and down, then up again, eyes lingering on his and Finn’s held hands, and ending at last, with Poe’s eyes.

 

“So. You must be cute dog-guy,” she said briskly, moving down the counter and holding out her hand. Poe glanced at Finn, who looked down, smiling a little. Then he let go of Poe’s hand so Poe could shake Rey’s. Her grip was strong and cool, and her nails were blunt. She looked even younger than Finn—who looked _way_ too young to be running a business—with a tan face, freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, and her dark brown hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail. Her outfit consisted of khakis, boots, a Joan Jett t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and a black fanny-pack turned to the front.

 

“Uh,” Poe said, smiling as his hand was nearly wagged off his wrist. “That depends on whether you mean I’m: _the guy with the cute dog_ , or _the cute guy with the dog_ , or _the cute guy with the cute dog_.”

 

Rey grinned and it transformed her keen face into a friendly one. “Well, to hear Finn describe you _and_ your dog, I’d pick the third one. Cute guy, cute dog.”

 

“Ah. Soooo . . . Finn’s mentioned me?” Poe asked turning a smug smile of his own back to Finn, after Rey let go of his hand and eased past him, deeper into the shop. “And apparently my dog.”

 

“Oh, yeah. You’re all he talked about this morning— _really_ good-looking guy, sexy voice, _nice_ smile . . . nice, capable hands meant for . . . gripping things.” Rey cast an arch look back at Poe.

 

“ _Rey_!” Finn complained, burying his face in his hands. “Shut _up_!”

 

“Well, it’s not like it’s a secret that you like him! Obviously _he_ knew, or he wouldn’t have come back!” Rey sniffed some flowers Poe didn’t recognize, then turned her smile back to Poe and Finn. That smile didn’t last long. She made a face and turned to make her way deeper into the shop. “Ugh, you’re so adorable together. I think I’m going into diabetic shock.”

 

A few seconds later, a door at the back of the shop opened and closed creakily. Poe and Finn glanced at each other, Finn looking painfully embarrassed, Poe looking insufferably pleased.

 

“Well. That’s Rey,” Finn mumbled. Poe laughed.

 

“She’s awesome.”

 

“Well, thinking that is at least one thing you two have in common.” Finn sniffed, looking irritated. But the look passed when Poe slipped his hand back inside Finn’s. Finn closed his hand around Poe’s loosely.

 

“Would you . . . care to join me for a celebratory dinner tonight?” Poe asked, as Finn stroked his fingers with his thumb. Poe shivered and Finn smiled uncertainly.

 

“Um. What would we be celebrating?”

 

Poe grinned again. “Well, this morning, I got cast in the role of a lifetime, is what. Against all odds, it feels like,” he laughed again. “Anyway, my agent, Leia, hasn’t had time to set up a proper party, yet—probably not before Friday—but she wanted to celebrate today, nonetheless. So she and her husband are having me over for dinner. And they said I should feel free to bring a plus-one, so. . . .”

 

Finn’s eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline. “Sooooo . . . you’re an actor, eh?”

 

Poe bowed a little. “At your service.”

 

“Hmm.” Finn’s lashes shuttered his eyes for a few moments before he met Poe’s gaze again. “But wouldn’t it be weird for us both, having dinner with these people that _you_ know and then _me_ , who you _don’t_ know and who doesn’t know _them_?”

 

“Well, I _am_ an actor. Worse comes to worst, I can _act_ like I’m comfortable and having a good time.” Poe shrugged.

 

Finn’s brows furrowed. “That’s _so_ not funny.”

 

Chuckling, Poe laced his fingers with Finn’s. “No, I guess it’s not. But Leia and Han are so ridiculously easy to be around. They’re like the parents you wish you had—they treat everyone younger than a certain age like their child. So they’ll try to feed you till you explode and they’ll ask what your intentions toward me are.”

 

Finn blinked. “Completely honorable, I assure you,” he said laconically. “The most honorable intentions you’ll find for parsecs in any direction.”

 

“Well, let’s hope they’re not _too_ honorable.” Poe blushed again, but managed to hold Finn’s gaze.

 

“ _Is_ there really such a thing as _too honorable_?” Finn mused innocently, but his lips were twitching like he wanted to laugh. Poe rolled his eyes and tugged on Finn’s hand as he leaned over the counter. Surprised, Finn leaned over the counter as well, right into the kiss Poe had waiting for him.

 

It wasn’t a long kiss—it was, in fact, quite brief: just a chaste pressing of lips together, before Poe broke it to lean his forehead against Finn’s. “Um—I’m sorry? I mean, I’m _not_ , but I’m sorry if I’m moving too fa—”

 

“Kiss me again,” Finn whispered almost hoarsely, licking his lips. “ _Please_.”

 

Grinning, slow and eager, Poe nodded. “Sure thing,” he breathed, his lips brushing Finn’s before taking them in another kiss, this one more heated and demanding than the last. Finn moaned and brought his free hand up to rest on the back of Poe’s neck, fingers scritching and scratching there, before sliding up into Poe’s curly hair and pulling him closer. He moaned when Poe’s tongue brushed and flirted with his own, while he explored Finn’s mouth intently.

 

Finn tasted like citrus and mint—orange juice and spearmint chewing gum, maybe—and he let Poe control the kiss for a little bit, before surging up into it like swimmer breaking the surface of a pool. He was nervous, at first, it was obvious. The kiss was a little clumsy . . . but it soon evened out and Poe found himself melting into it as if they’d been kissing each other for years. As if they’d be kissing each other for years to come. . . .

 

But eventually, it ended, as kisses do. They both needed oxygen, and the panting sips of it they could only barely get while kissing weren’t quite enough. So Finn teased his way out of the kiss with several small, sweet, citrus-mint kisses, his hand leaving the back of Poe’s head to cup his face tenderly. Poe couldn’t even open his eyes at first, still inhabiting the space of the kiss in perception, if not reality.

 

“Wow,” Finn breathed, his thumb brushing across Poe’s kiss-swollen lips. “That was. . . .”

 

“Yeah . . . it was,” Poe agreed fervently, still trying to catch his breath. He leaned back a little to see Finn’s eyes were still closed, his brow still furrowed, his lips still puckered slightly. “Even though I shoulda probably waited till we’d had at least _one_ date before I put out. I mean, what if we discover we don’t like each other? What if we’re polar opposites politically? Religiously? What if we’re _both_ bottoms? What if—”

 

Finn’s eyes opened: a dark, mysterious glitter that was Poe’s whole universe when they were so close. “Hey, your dog likes me. What more do you need to know?”

 

Poe opened his mouth to gainsay that . . . then found he had no quick rebuttal to that kind of flawless logic. “She _is_ a discerning creature of impeccable taste.”

 

“Shiba Inus usually are,” Finn murmured, chuckling. Poe blinked in surprise.

 

“You know her breed?”

 

“I did a little Googling after I met you guys.” He chuckled again, his eyes darting to Poe’s lips yearningly. “And for the record, I top, I lean left politically, I'm not particularly religious, and I doubt there’s _anything_ about you I _won’t_ like.”

 

Poe, blushing, nevertheless tried not to look as relieved as he felt. “Um, good to know. So. Wanna come have dinner with me, my agent, and my agent’s husband?”

 

“Sure. Why the hell not?” Finn smiled, still stealing glances at Poe’s lips. “Hey, now that we’ve got all _that_ settled, here’s a crazy question: Can I kiss you, again, Poe Dameron?”

 

Grinning again, and not caring that he was blushing a probably unflattering shade of crimson, Poe leaned their foreheads together again. “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me again, since . . . pretty much the moment we stopped kiss—mmph!” Poe didn’t get to finish his sentence, let alone finish catching his breath. Finn’s kiss was devouring and aggressive and, at turns, sweet and tender. It was all Poe could do to keep up. He certainly didn’t have any room for extraneous thoughts, and probably wouldn’t for a while, since they were fast approaching melt-down mode.

 

_Eh . . . breathing and thinking are both overrated, anyway._

And that was Poe’s last coherent thought for quite some time.

 

END


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